


That Mouth My Gods That Mouth

by BroltaAMaga



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: #bepatientmypretties, #hotsexcoming, #nothingyet, #oralsexduhitshvitserk, F/M, Oral Sex, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-06
Updated: 2018-02-26
Packaged: 2019-03-01 02:47:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13285341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BroltaAMaga/pseuds/BroltaAMaga
Summary: I'm a bit of a whore for Hvitserk and that expressive mouth, so this fic is a tribute to that. With me, it's always going to be a little fluffy, some more of my LoveSmut, my graphic/romantic way of writing. It's just the way I'm wired. I'm relatively new to this though and posting on here is making me bolder in my writing though and my freakier side... Enjoy!





	1. War-Shirt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Embla, a leatherworker in Kattegat is hired by Ubbe and Ivar to make a few things. While delivering those, Hvitserk is interested in her and her handiwork. He asks her to make him a leather vest for battle. 
> 
> After I wrote this, I found this article that says that was actually a pretty romantic thing for a norse woman to do! http://www.heathenhof.com/sex-love-and-beauty-in-viking-age-culture/

Hvitserk came with three hard thrusts and a shudder, your name on his phenomenal lips, those lips on your neck. It was your undoing and you joined him. 

Afterwards, you lay in his arms, watching him drift off into a short nap. Gods, those lips. That mouth. You could come again nearly from just the sight of them. He had the most expressive, beautiful mouth you’d ever seen on a man and you thanked the Gods that mouth belonged to a man who wanted to put it on you. Your Hvitserk. 

Well someday you hoped he would make you his. For now, you were the one thing he sought out nearly as much as food. 

He’d been eating an apple when you first saw him in he marketplace. Leaned up against a beam to another stall, his eyes were hot on you as his lips curled around the bright red fruit. You lost your breath momentarily and you’d just about dropped a customer’s order in the mud when you noticed him and that mouth. You’d thankfully caught the package before it was spoiled, curtsied an apology to the customer, and pocketed the silver. You could feel your mother’s disapproving glare on your neck, but ignored it and started helping the next villager who came up. 

That customer had to repeat their question twice before you’d processed it enough to stutter an answer and when you glanced over at Hvitserk, he lowered the apple, crossed his arms across his broad chest and chewed as a slow, amused smile curved across his lips. Frustrated at your body for betraying you and for his adorable, infuriating grin, your fingers curled into fists, you set your mouth into a determined pout, and steeled your muscles to pay attention to your work. His brother Ubbe had eventually come up and dragged him off to some important princely business but he’d shot you a heavy-lidded look and then, this time a full-teethed smile back at you as he walked off. Those lips spreading over those teeth, crinkling the skin near his eyes had thrilled you so that you’d just stared and once you gathered your wits, you’d barely had time to tilt up one corner of your mouth. You watched until he was just a tiny green-shirted dot all the way up the hill to the main hall. 

“You are far too distracted today, daughter,” your mother snorted and you lowered your eyes, ashamed. “I’m sorry mother. I, I... I’ve got some pains,” you lied lamely, placing your palm on your womb, thinking vaguely that it _was _aching, but not from monthly female troubles. Your mother saw straight through the lie, but something in her must have softened towards you, some small vestige of sympathy for being a woman in a Viking world and she didn’t punish you. It was short lived, as was much of her kindness, and she shooed you out of the stall, telling you if you weren’t going to be helpful here, you could at least go help with your ill father at home. Without a tanner to cure the hides, your seamstress skills were pretty much useless.__

____

You didn’t see Hvitserk for three more days but when you did, he was eating again and it made you giggle at first. You felt like Loki himself was being mischievous, taunting you, knowing you would probably trip over your own feet, spill something or bump into someone important while mesmerized by Hvitserk’s mouth. 

As it turned out, it was a chicken drumstick and a stray cat that did you in. 

The humiliating result was all three of your imagined outcomes in one. You had walked into the hall to deliver a new set of leather pants for Ubbe and a scabbard for Ivar… Hvitserk was seated facing the door, feet up on there table, large cup of ale in one hand and sucking the very bones of the chicken leg with the other. You’d stopped short at the sight and tried to suppress the nervous, excited giggle that bubbled up in you. The cursed cat had slid between your legs without you noticing until you stuttered out a step trying to gather yourself. It sent you crashing into the edge of the table and the arm of the seated Ivar Ragnarsson. The force sloshed his drink over his hand as he took a sip and jostled Hvitserk legs enough to make him look up and pop the drumstick out of his lips. 

“Fuck!” Ivar snarled, wiping his hand on his pants and looking up to see who he could beat for the clumsiness.  
“I’m so sorry, my Prince,” you bowed hastily, your eyes to the floor. Your wrist throbbed, having caught awkwardly on the table, but you  
quickly presented Ivar with the new scabbard, laying it across both palms and bowing again. “I finished.” 

As you’d hoped, the quality of your family’s workmanship and anything having to do with killing and maiming had derailed his anger. It was spectacular, if you did say so yourself, the dark leather crisscrossed with lighter bracing straps and tooled with curls and runic inscriptions that would hopefully bring the God’s favor to him in battle. His eyes widened and he reached out, caressed it admiringly, but then his pride overtook him. His eyes narrowed, his hands curled around and stroked it as if it were an extension of himself. His eyes danced up to you and he cocked a lascivious eyebrow.  
“Leave her alone, little brother. She’s not interested in you.” Your heart thrilled at Hvitserk’s voice and you wanted to fall into his arms right then and declare yes, because you were his. Instead you smiled weakly at Hvitserk and flashed Ivar an apologetic, tight lipped smile with a tilt of your head. Ivar mumbled “Like that ever stopped me,” but shrugged you off and focused his attentions back to his scabbard. 

“Here you are, Ubbe,” you said to the eldest of Auslaug and Ragnar’s sons, as he’d approached hearing the clamor of your fall and Ivar’s swearing. Ubbe smiled kindly. “Thank you, Embla.” He took the pants over to his new wife, Runa, who was nursing their new son, Kvasir in her arms. She appraised the pants admiringly and gave you a nod and a smile. You were used to the praise when it came to your workmanship. Your family were some of the most respected leatherworkers in all of Norway… but what you weren’t used to was the way Hvitserk was admiring you with his eyes right now. You knew you were decent looking, tall, lean with fair hair and eyes, but there must have been something about you men shied away from or you’d have been married by now. Your sweet father had stroked your cheek about three years ago when you’d come to him crying, asking if you were pretty, and said of course you were. He told you you were a unique beauty, one that could never be described as ugly, or even plain certainly, but one that some men simply didn’t appreciate, perhaps were afraid of, knowing they were not worthy. You, my sweet child, he’d said, you were one made by the Gods for someone special, someone who will appreciate differences, atypical uniqueness of face and countenance. 

Being a vulnerable fourteen year old at the time who just wanted to fit in and be admired by all, like your friend, the curvy, queenlike Erika that all your male peers chased after with their tongues hanging out, you’d ran off to your room and cried. As your father lay now though, ill, possibly dying, you realized there was some truth to his words. Erika had such a throng of admirers that she’d chosen one somewhat randomly at age fifteen and you knew now was secretly in a very unhappy marriage. He husband didn’t appreciate her, had tired of her face and was always sneaking out with other women. 

But as Hvitserk’s eyes traveled over you, you felt a surge of power that maybe somehow you were different from any other woman he’d set eyes on before. He set his feet down with a small thud and beckoned you over to him with three flicks of a long finger. You inhaled sharply and walked towards him practically floating as if you’d been hooked on a fishing line and reeled in. 

“Embla.”  
“Yes my prince.”  
His deep green eyes anchored to yours.  
“I need a new war-shirt.”  
Your eyes flicked back and forth, trying desperately to remember. Had you or your family made his last one? He read your thoughts as if you’d spoken them.  
“We used Olaf and Alva.” He snickered then at your disapproving look and you cursed your honest face.  
“They were cheaper.” Knowing now he'd decipher your face, you shot him a “you got what you deserved” look and he stretched that spectacular mouth into a laugh.  
“Yes, that’s the problem exactly. It’s decent enough leather, I suppose as I’m still here, but it’s heavy, constrictive and hot.”  
“May I, my prince?” you asked, approaching him closer and reaching out with one hand. He nodded. He wasn’t wearing a war-vest, but the casual leather vest he did have on was good enough for your demonstrative purposes. You reached out for his armpit, slid a finger in between the leather and his shirt and he squirmed. 

Sweet gods, he was ticklish, you thought, trying to slow your heart. You struggled to focus.  
“Did Olaf measure you for this vest too?” Hvitserk nodded at your question.  
“It’s far too tight. Here.” You dragged a finger down along his side, admiring at least Olaf’s tanning skills, the supple leather nearly silk under your touch. Even better than the texture however, was the slight intake of breath you got out of Hvitserk with your touch.  
“I stretch the interior…” you cleared your throat at the unintended double entendré…”the um, side panels” you corrected yourself and he smirked. “Much more, to accommodate…” Sweet gods, you’d never noticed before how much clothes-making easily compared to sex. 

“My girth?” Hvitserk finished for you with a devilish grin, but his eyes danced with kindness. You smiled at him, shook your head and bit your lip to suppress a loud chuckle that certainly would have attracted attention in the hall and threatened your modesty. He smiled so kindly at you then you knew your modesty, at least in the confines of the public hall was safe. 

“Yes.” you said regaining your composure. “Anyway, yes, I work the leather more so that even though it appears the same on the exterior, not sloppy, baggy or loose, it moves more with you. Olaf doesn’t take the time to do that. Or he doesn’t know how.” 

“Well then, thank the Gods, Embla, that I have you to make my next war-shirt.”

His eyes clinched yours again and you felt his gaze somehow strike into your center, somewhere vaguely between your heart and your loins, but its warmth spread to both.


	2. Try to Stay Professional

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Embla argues with her father about going to measure Hvitserk for his new shirt. Her father is still too weak and her mother doesn't know how to do it. He's afraid for his daughter's purity and the family honor, but she's feeling a need for independence for the first time. However, she surprises herself when given the easy opportunity to bed Hvitserk, finding she wants more than just his pheomenal mouth and requiring more of him as well. 
> 
> Reader needs a little suspension of disbelief on this one... who knows how Viking-era leatherworkers measured for clothing... Since they didn't have a system of writing or measurement, I came up with the idea of the knotted string, which hey as we all know, hints of tying someone up is always hot... 
> 
> more to come tomorrow!

“Absolutely not.” Your father said from his bed with more firmness in his voice than you’d heard in weeks, ever since he’d fallen ill. 

You resisted the urge to roll your eyes, but did exhale as if every worry your father was having was completely unfounded. 

“It’s just a shirt, father, a war-shirt at that. He’ll be fully dressed, we’ll be right in the hall, with others around.” You stopped at that, and continued kneading the raw bread dough in your hands. Your heart wanted you to plead like a little girl wanting another bite of some far too rich delicacy, but you knew that in this situation, brevity and composure were best. Anything else would relay your excitement of the prospect of measuring Hvitserk for the new clothing. And the more you let your words or thoughts ramble about Hvitserk, the higher pitched they’d be and the more breathless you knew you’d become. 

You focused on the dough, flipping it, working it. You could feel your father’s eyes on you, and you willed yourself not to look up expectantly or else he’d see straight through you. Good Gods you thought to yourself as you pushed into the dough. Even a soft lump of flour and water reminded you of Hvitserk. As you flipped it over, you imagined him flipping you over. As you pressed the heel of your hand in, you envisioned his muscles yielding under your fingers.  
Your father cleared his throat then and you startled. He didn’t seem to make much note of your daydream and you quickly patted the bread into a round, and slid it into the small oven. 

“Besides, we can’t afford to turn down a Ragnarsson,” you said simply and he sighed, leveling his eyes at you. “That’s exactly what I’m afraid of, daughter.” 

“Father, you’ve raised me to be an honorable woman and as the only surviving child,” your father’s eyes softened at that “I take it very seriously to keep honor in this family.” You leveled your eyes right back. He was visibly shocked at your intense assertion and your newfound maturity, but then his eyes filled with pride. 

“All right then, but daughter, you guard yourself. Those Ragnarssons are noble warriors, great leaders, surely, but many a maiden has fallen under their charms. I don’t presume to think we’re royalty, but you’re not a servant girl in the halls, either Embla. You’re a free woman and you have your own will.” 

You nodded. “Thank you father. Yes, I will and yes I do.” He smiled at that, and you felt a strange excitement at knowing your will was to do the opposite of what he meant. You respected your father, but for the first time in your seventeen years, you wanted a little independence and secrecy. 

Your bravery and confidence with your father the night before wilted quickly when you walked through the marketplace in the morning to meet Hvitserk. You felt that familiar pressure in your womb again as the tall silhouette of the hall loomed over you. The sound of metal clashing drew your attention then and you realized thankfully he was in the side yard, sparring with Sigurd, not eating something which you knew would loosen your composure around him. You walked over, ready to wait politely for him to notice you, but he noticed you straight away, sending a jolt straight through you. He threw up his hand for Sigurd to stop and tossed his sword to an awaiting servant. 

“Embla!” His broad smile warmed you and you returned it with a small bob of a curtsy. Sigurd frowned. 

“Brother, I need more practice,” he pouted. Hvitserk waved him off. 

“Practice with my whiny brother, Sveinn.” Hvitserk said to the servant who’d caught the sword. “I have an appointment,” he continued, directing his eyes to you and thrilling you with the importance he laid on it with his tone. 

As the swords clanged again behind him, Hvitserk ambled over towards you, but stopped first at a water bucket, grabbed the floating cup and scooped up some of its contents. Sweet Gods again, you thought as the sight of him casually bringing the water to his mouth sent a shiver through your limbs. It didn’t even have to be food. He gulped the entire cup thirstily, then let out a satisfied “ahh!” and tossed the cup back to the bucket, it landing with a small splash.  
“Shall we?” He motioned for you to go ahead of him into the hall. You nodded weakly. 

The hall was full of the rest of his family and some musicians brought in to entertain. Ivar sat on one of the thrones, looking proud to be there, stroking the arm of the chair, but sneering at the lyre player occasionally. 

Ubbe, who you noticed with a surge of pride, was wearing his new pants, Runa and Kvasir snuggled together on the fur covered steps, Kvasir sleeping as Ubbe patted his tummy and Runa stroked his face. They chuckled softly together admiringly and you knew they were like most new parents, marveling at how their creation was the most beautiful thing the gods had ever put on this earth. They made the picture of a beautiful family and your womb tugged at you again with a sweeter, simpler yearning.

Hvitserk noticed you looking at them. “He’s a strong, healthy lad,” he said low. You nodded, turned and smiled at him. “My congratulations on becoming an uncle.” He turned up one corner of his mouth sweetly at you, his eyes softening. “Do you have any siblings?” You nodded, but your eyes were sad and Hvitserk put a hand on your arm, patting it. “Are they still on this earth?” You shook your head, particularly missing your elder brother Ake, killed in a raid last spring. You said as much and Hvitserk’s eyes widened. “I knew him. I was there. I remember his death. He was very strong, very brave. He saved a few men and is surely feasting in Valhalla now.” You nodded. “I know, I should feel happy for him and that his death was a noble one.” Hvitserk squeezed your arm then and you realized he hadn’t ever removed it. “But you miss him. It’s all right to. The gods don’t expect us to take only delight in our loved one’s deaths.”

Kvasir started to cry just then and not just a tiny wail. A full lunged scream that echoed to the rafters. As his new parents hurried to soothe him, and all their efforts failed, Hvitserk pulled you just out of the main hall to escape the din.  
“We should get started.” His eyes darted down the hall to where you knew the private rooms were. 

As beautiful and tempting as Hvitserk was, your father’s warning echoed in your head, just a tiny wail, not a Kvasir-like scream, though.  
“My Prince. I must insist…” He raised his eyebrows at you and you sensed an infuriating amusement behind them. He quirked that cursed mouth at your and you stuttered, not sure how to say what you wanted without offending him. He took the lead, gratefully, chuckling. “Embla, this is a business appointment. Your honor is safe with me, I swear it on my arm ring.” He tapped the gold, wolf-headed bracelet peeking out of his shirt sleeve and you smiled wondering how he could go so quickly from making you feel silly to safe again. 

Right as he opened one of the private room doors though, he stopped and turned to you.  
“Oh, Ubbe loves his new pants by the way. Says they’re soft as his son’s skin and move in sync with him like Runa did when he was conceived. I’ll need a pair too.” You gulp, your eyes wide. He said it as causally as if he’d told you how the weather was on one of his journeys and as he smirked and entered the room, you shook your head and knew you were certainly going to have to keep your guard up. 

Hvitserk held the door open for you, then made a show of leaving it open, shooting you a look, like “see?” and you nodded smiling appreciably. He looked a little uncertain then at what he was supposed to do and you realized Olaf had simply estimated his measurements. You set yourself into professional mode, readying your rudimentary but effective tools for making custom clothing. 

“Just stand there please, sir, and remove your vest.” Hvitserk looked at you, his lips slightly apart and dragged his tongue across his lower lip as he shuffled the vest off his shoulders, then he caught himself and his tongue darted back into his mouth. He pressed his lips together hard and looked up at the ceiling like it was fascinating. You realized, half amused, half burning with jealousy, that was his habit while disrobing with a woman in front of him. It wasn’t that it was an act, you realized, it was more of a habit, that mouth of his having a mind of its own and when he was about to bed a woman, his tongue knew the power it had over a female with warm blood running through her veins. You got excited at the thought that for you, for your honor, Hvitserk was actually trying to control it, probably for the first time ever. 

You took the vest in two fingers and set it aside, trying not to crinkle your nose at it.  
“Just look forward and stand still,” He did and you nearly shivered at the feeling of him doing exactly as you’d asked, even if it was a simple, professional request such as this. You took a ball of string you’d brought in your leather pouch and made quick work of measuring the circumference of his neck, knotting the string where it met the loose end. You tried to ignore how close your mouths were and managed, barely. 

“Just hold your arms out,” you asked and Hvitserk did, leveling his eyes down to yours as you pulled out an arm’s length of string from the ball. He kept his eyes on you, but you busied yourself with your work, which was a struggle for sure. The only thing keeping you from tearing that shirt right off him was a deep desire to make him the most magnificent war shirt and pants the world had ever seen. And to do that, you needed to focus. 

You took a step closer to him, just one step away now from your torsos touching and reached under his armpit and measured the circumference of his uppermost arm. He wasn’t ticklish this time and the thought sent a ripple straight to your loins. He flexed his bicep and you smiled at him showing off. You accounted for the extra inch of muscle with the flex, knowing you’d protect the vulnerable artery deep within his upper arm with a flap of thick leather, then knotted off the string again. 

Your head spun a bit at the next task as you reached around his back with the string. You sucked in your breath, realizing he was larger than you’d thought and pulled more string from the ball, making the end meet in front, at the level of his nipples. You could feel how labored his breath was as his powerful chest expanded, stretching the string under your fingers. You glanced up, realized his eyes hadn’t left your face for a moment and the tense line of restraint his mouth was setting turned your knees to water. You deftly made a knot in the string right where the end met, marking his measurement. You cleared your throat and pulled the string back around to the front. 

“Embla…” his voice was low, husky and you knew you shouldn’t answer. There wasn’t a chance in Hel there was a professional question behind that tone. You’d just gotten started. How in the name of the gods were you ever going to kneel in front of this man, stretch your string along the length of his inseam and measure him for pants you thought? HIs hands dropped slightly then, curling towards you and you imagined they were itching to take you into them.  
“Keep your arms up, sir.”  
He closed his eyes momentarily, inhaled sharply and raised them back up. You steeled yourself to measure his trim waist, the same way, reaching back around him and pulling the string around. Your navels were nearly touching and you went out of your way to trace each inch with your fingers, something you would have never done with any other client, but you kept your face neutral so he’d maybe think this was standard treatment. That was near to impossible as your fingers felt the whisper of his muscular, taut sides and stomach beneath them. 

The man didn’t have an ounce of fat on him, which was amazing considering he was ALWAYS eating. You realized with a pout, it was probably because any time spent away from the table was either on the battlefield or in bed. 

You knotted the waist measurement in the string with a little angry flick, your brows knitted, and it wasn’t lost on him.  
“Embla,” this time it was just as husky, but tinged with a bit of sweetness,  
earnestly begging you to answer. His hands drifted down to yours, his palms closing gently around the backs of yours. You felt all the blood drain out of you. How could your blood run so cold and so hot at the same moment, you wondered in a daze?  
“Embla. Put the string down for a moment.”  
At his request, your fingers yielded, opening, and the ball of string hit the floorboards with a soft thud, then rolled away. You looked up at him and he squeezed your hands.  
“You don’t have to be so brave.” 

You wanted those words to be the permission you needed to surrender, your excuse for giving him everything, but some tiny part of you, deep inside said no, not yet. The yet was your shining hope, what made this sweet torture worth it. You flipped his hands so that you were palm to palm now, squeezed them back and looked deep into his eyes, your thoughts firm and keeping your bodily desires at bay.  
“Yes, my prince. Yes I do.”  
His eyes softened more, if that was possible.  
“You’re safe with me, Embla. I’ll take care of you, I won’t hurt you and I’ll worship every inch of you.” 

You took a step back at that and Hvitserk’s eyes widened.  
“I know that, sir.”  
“Please, Embla, Call me Hvitserk.” He begged and your heart warmed. 

Gods, he was making this hard but you knew he wasn’t trying to, which made it even harder.  
“I know that Hvitserk. I know you won’t hurt me and I know it would be wonderful. You just have to realize, you have the luxury of being a man, a prince, a Ragnarsson. I have none of that. If you have absolutely no intentions of marrying me, please don’t ruin me for any other chances at it.”

He gulped, that gorgeous mouth pursing and he looked completely tortured, and maybe then you thought with a wave of nausea, angry. You felt your middle twist at that and remembered one of the last things your dear sister, Dagmar had told you. She had been married a year earlier and as most elder sisters do, loved to share all her newfound worldly wisdom. “Never, ever give a Viking man an ultimatum. The only quarrel Arvid and I have had was when I tried to do that. And it wasn’t so much a quarrel as it was him storming out, and going on a three day drinking binge with his single friends and probably whoring all over Kattegat. Although…” she’d said with a nostalgic smile “When he came back, we made up, and we made this…” she said stroking her swelling belly. 

That forgiveness and submission was what killed her however in the end, the childbirth being long and horrible and she and the baby had died after a day and a half of her agony. 

You were completely shocking yourself with all the feelings and thoughts coursing through you and the words coming out of your mouth. None of this was coming from your father’s worries or wants. This was your first time with a man who wanted to bed you right in front of you and every feeling and thing pouring out of your mouth right now was your own. You knew you were hurting and confusing him, and that was a dagger in your belly, but you had to let him know how you felt. 

He stood there gaping at you, then dropped your hands. Your eyes threatened to fill with tears and you quickly bent, gathered up the fallen string that was tangled around your feet, stuffed it into your bag and ran out the door.


	3. Protection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> #theyFINALLYfuck #brownchickenbrowncow #andshegetssomeofthatmouth #hungryhvitserk #hidetanning #noactualhidetanninglikeleatherworking 
> 
> This chapter is long, but I was just dying for these two to finally come together and I couldn't bear to split up the leatherworking part from the sexytime. Also again, if anyone knows how to imbed a saved gif into these damn things, I'd love the help. If you want to see the gifs that go along with the story, check me out on Tumblr- HvitserksGirl
> 
> Edit to say while I loved researching some old seamstress and leatherworking techniques for this piece, it's really not the focus, so if I'm wrong, I'm sorry. With the seamstress stuff, I mostly made it up knowing they didn't have a written language so the knotted string was what I came up with and I thought the imagery was hot af. With the leather armor, it's more the thought that counts in terms of what Embla made for Hvitserk, how she wants to do all she can to protect him in battle.
> 
> Leather armor shirt pic credit of https://www.blackravenarmoury.co.uk/wp-content/uploads/2017/03/Vendel-Full-Set-1.jpg

Hvitserk made you wait nearly a month before you heard from him again.

To his credit, he wasn’t simply sitting around, making you suffer in your humiliation and grief of a dropped dream… he did have official business in far off lands to attend to with his brothers, important meetings solidifying pacts and alliances with neighboring earldoms. You hoped he was as miserable as you, wondering what the other was thinking and feeling.

You set yourself to work on your commission the very next day after you’d fled from the measuring appointment, partially out of a sense of duty and honor to your vocation, but also for emotional survival. If you’d been left alone to the luxury of your thoughts and feelings, you would have drowned yourself in the fjord.

And so you were thankful for the leather in your hands, tanned and cured to supple perfection by your father, who although weak and slower than he used to be, was recovering. He’d begun teaching you the process as well, you knew because his fever and resulting long illness had frightened him and he wanted to ensure you and your mother had a way of supporting yourself if he ever fell that ill again.

But as you began cutting and laying out the pieces of leather for his war-shirt on your work table, looking to your knotted string occasionally to ensure a perfect fit, you were flooded with memories of him and it nearly brought you to your knees.

“Holy gods. Is he really that broad of chest?” your mother marveled, holding the string up before her in a loop, her eyes wide and appreciative of the man who had been wrapped in its circumference. “Is he? I hadn’t noticed,” you lied, trying to sound dismissive and convince your heart that you didn’t care either. But then your mother, either completely naïve or thoroughly aware of what she was doing more likely, you mused, held up the expanse that had encircled his lean waist and let out an approving, surprised “whew! And is this small bit is his middle?” her fingers traced it and her eyes danced. You laughed at the sight of your somewhat cold mother looking like a young girl. She smiled then at you, slightly embarrassed at herself and chuckled along with you. “What, daughter? You think your aged mother doesn’t still have warm blood coursing through her veins? I’m just remembering your father in his younger years… although, I’ll tell you, the older years aren’t so bad either. With the slow decline of youthful muscle comes much experience and expertise.” She smirked at you and you bumped her shoulder amicably. She bumped yours back and you both giggled.

Her eyes fell then upon the pieces of leather you were laying out in the shape of Hvitserk’s shirt. She sucked in her breath.  
“Daughter.”  
She reached out and gently stroked the pieces carefully, in reverence but also because they were not all sewn together yet. 

 

“This is spectacular. Really. Your best work.”  
You smiled at that and then looked down to appraise it yourself. It was beautiful, you had to admit. You didn’t like arrogance, but this felt all right as you’d felt a presence from above, from the gods guiding your hands as you had designed and pieced the armory together. You’d particularly felt Vidar’s presence around you as you designed the back piece, and tooled the image of him slaying the wolf Fenrir into it to honor him, him stepping on the wolf’s bottom jaw, holding the top jaw and slashing his gaping mouth to pieces. On the rest of the piece, you’d simply drawn curved scroll and knots, but they were elegant and conveyed power and protection. Even though you were upset with Hvitserk for not chasing after you that day in the hall, you wanted him safe from harm. Even though a battle death would be glorious and fill you with pride and respect, just like with your brother, you’d rather have him in Midgard with you a bit longer.

You spent the next few days and late into the nights, sewing with reinforced woolen thread that had been waxed for strength and further waterproofing. When it was finally done, you’d collapsed into your bed, eyes bleary, fingers sore from accidental needle jabs and raw from the friction of pulling the waxed thread. 

You awoke the next morning to a knock at the door then and your mother answering it. You shuffled out of bed and into the kitchen. As you blinked at the daylight streaming through the open door, your heart warmed that your mother had let you sleep in. As you saw it was the royal messenger from the hall, a young boy you recognized named Birgir, your heart jumped in your chest. “Yes, boy, what is it?” He smiled conspiratorially but shyly and sweetly, and simply handed your mother a red apple. “But, what…?” she began but then Birgir glanced around her at you and your mother turned. She furrowed her brow in confusion and Birgir ran off. “Boy! Come back!” she cried, but you stilled her with your hand on her shoulder. “It’s for me, mother. He’s back.” You smiled and she raised her eyebrows, then smiled back at you, handing you the apple. “And he wants me to come visit.” “Then you must hurry, my daughter.” She reached out and smoothed your hair, hurriedly tucking some stray wisps back into your braid.  
“You go fix yourself up and I’ll wrap up the shirt.”

As fresh as you could look after a week’s worth of long nights working, you strode up the hill with your packages. You’d also tucked another one against the one containing the shirt your mother had wrapped, one filled with something secret, a gift for Hvitserk that you’d finished first and hidden beneath your mattress. A sort of apology, not that you thought you had anything to be sorry for, but more a gesture of peace and to let him know you still cared.

As you crested the hill, you saw him immediately as he was on the front porch, leaned up against a post, working those lips back and forth in anticipation of seeing you. 

You realized with a surge of excitement how much you’d missed him and how much you loved that while his body was still and he could appear mostly calm and casual to you and any passerby, those twitching lips betrayed him, let you know how eager he was to see you. The way his mouth wiggled into a smile and his eyes creased when they fell upon you confirmed it.

As you mounted the steps, his eyes never left yours and when you reached him, he reached out and touched one of your arms giving them a quick squeeze before glancing around to the villagers. You smiled back at him, enjoying your little secret. You bobbed a curtsy at him and said “My prince. I have the goods you ordered,” slightly louder than necessary so as to ward off any villager gossip about your presence. His eyes widened as he finally noticed the packages you were carrying. “You finished it already? It took Olaf nearly twice as long.” At your critical face, he chuckled. “Probably to produce work half as good.” You smiled at that. “I had help and inspiration from the gods, my prince.”

Hvitserk motioned for you to come inside, but kept talking, very interested at your claim. “Really? Any in particular?” You shook your head smiling as you both entered the darker hall. “I want to show it to you,” you said, low and he understood. He quickly led you down the hall to the room you’d measured him in, bypassing his family and the servants in the main area.

As you walked in, you placed the packages on the table, then slid a hand into your dress pocket, closing it around the apple. He glanced at the door again, holding it open, raised his eyebrows, asking silently “open or closed?”

You produced the apple from your pocket, sunk your teeth slowly into it, a small, ladylike bite and walked towards him and the door.

“I gladly received your summons,” you said with a smirk, chewing the bite slowly. You reached around him and closed the door yourself, slowly. As you did, your body curled partially against his. As you straightened, he reached out and caught your jaw gently in his palm. At his touch, your whole body buzzed and warmed and your eyes slowly closed.

You’d assumed he would just grab you and kiss you then, so you swallowed your small bite of apple neatly, but he surprised you, snatching the apple out of your hands and sinking his teeth into it like a man who hadn’t eaten in weeks.

Your eyes flew open and laughed out loud, reaching for it and he dodged, pressing a hand onto your shoulder to keep you away as he swallowed and took another large bite. His hand on you, watching his mouth work around that bite all kindled a burning lust in you and when he looked over, he saw it instantly and the air between you grew thick and heavy with want. You were glad you’d already gulped your bite of apple down, your mouth now gone dry. You just about died of lust when Hvitserk, realizing his bite was too big and he couldn’t wait another moment for you, spit the chunk out fiercely over his shoulder, cut the distance between you in a millisecond and crushed your mouth with his.

 

Your knees went weak and you thanked the gods for his strong hands tight on your upper arms as without them them, you certainly would have sunk to the floor in a worthless puddle. His lips were strong and soft on yours and you yielded further to him, your fingers tangling in his braids as your mouths worked together, delicately exploring each other.

He pulled away slightly then and smiled at the small mewl of frustration that produced out of you. Again he surprised you, you thinking he’d continue the kiss right into a full seduction, dragging you towards the bed, but instead he took your face in his hands slowly, whispered an apology and your eyes flew open. 

“Embla, I’m sorry for making you run off like that last time. I’m sorry I made you feel like you weren’t worth anything to me, that I would just use your body for my pleasure. And that you think I don’t respect the position you’re in as a woman.” You smiled, pressed your cheek more firmly into his large palm, so glad he was not only apologizing, but knew WHAT to apologize for. So many men in your experience just blurted out apologies, hoping the words were enough to soothe a woman’s anger so they could get right back to what they wanted in the first place. He continued, his thumb stroking the side of your face. He slid the other hand along your other jaw and pressed gently, making you draw in a breath and lock eyes with him. “You are, I wouldn’t and I do.”

His lips were slightly parted after he spoke and you watched as his tongue traced a slow, thoughtful circle under the skin, under his cheek near his lips.

 

It drew you into him, you wanting, needing that tongue to meet your own again. Even though it was his hands on your jaw, it was you that reached around his waist, pulled your bodies and then your mouths together, both of your lips parting, meeting, opening and sighing in unison.

You spread your fingers over the rough linen of his shirt in your hands, feeling his back muscles beneath it and loving that they tensed and flexed at your touch. You were shocked but amused at the thoughts invading your virginal mind as you imagined every other muscle of his yielding and reacting to your hands. You were shocked again when Hvitserk turned the passionate kiss into a slower, sweeter one, finished with a small peck and pulled back.

“I’m dying to see what you made me, Embla,”  
You loved him for it. That kiss had made you as malleable as clay and he could have easily capitalized on your innocence and swept you right into submission. Actually letting go of you though proved harder than he’d thought and with a giggle, you shimmied out of his grasp and went to retrieve the packages. You handed him the smaller one first and his eyes widened. He bit his lip and as his teeth dragged off of it, you felt yourself warm and slick to the thought of his mouth on you. You inwardly rolled your eyes a bit at yourself, jealous of Hvitserk’s control over his own sexual urges as he took the smaller package from your offering hands.  
“This one is MY apology,” you answered his curious look. His eyes softened at that and he leaned in, kissed your cheek.  
“You don’t need to apologize for a thing,” he said pulling back and shaking his head at you. You shrugged, shy now and nudged him to open it. He unfolded the simple piece of linen wrap and you watched joyfully as his eyes fell upon the arm bracers and delighted in them. 

They matched the war shirt he hadn’t seen yet, but were also emblazoned with lovely tooling of the runes that stood for protection from enemies and victory. The edges of the runes were outlined, dotted with small metal studs. He breathed out an amazed sigh.  
“Embla.”  
“Do you like them?” You asked eagerly.  
“Like them? They’re incredible. I, I saw a belt once you’d made my friend Bjarke and… well, whew, Embla. This is just… You’re incredibly gifted.” He stopped at that, kissed you again and then his eyes flicked down to the other package in your arms, his war shirt. He licked the corner of his mouth and you smiled at the way he bounced as he took it from you like a young boy being given his first sword.

You felt earnest anxiety as he unwrapped it, dropping the linen and holding the armor up by the belted shoulder straps.

He didn’t say a word and his face was blank. Oh gods, he didn’t like it you thought, realizing out of shame, you wanted to make good on your earlier thought of grabbing a large rock and sinking yourself to the bottom of the fjord. Hvitserk walked slowly to the table where three candles were burning on stands. He turned the shirt in his hands to gaze upon the back and still said not a word. You drew in a hard breath, your brain dizzying and you realizing you hadn’t taken one since he’d dropped the linen. He placed it down on the table, and as he traced the image of Vidar slicing Fenrir’s mouth wide, you realized with a surge of excitement, he might actually like your creation. You took a cautious step towards him and the floorboard creaked under your weight. He turned suddenly and you realized he was so entranced by the armor that he’d forgotten you were in the room.  
“My father told me this story, right before he left. It’s my favorite. How did you...?” Hvitserk said then, his voice low.  
“I told you, it just came to me, my prince. As I was making it, I felt Vidar in the room with me, heard the howls of Fenrir as he slay him. I’d been thinking of simply drawing Thor, the one most warriors ask for on any commissioned armory, but when I heard that wolf cry out, right there as if it were two feet away from me in the candlelit shed near midnight, I knew.”

“Help me put it on.” Hvitserk’s voice was low, desperate. You hurriedly unbuckled one shoulder strap and three of the buckles on the same side and helped slide him into it. Then you buckled it all back up. It fit perfectly and he sighed as it slid onto and snugged around him.  
“It’s so light!” He marveled, running his hands over it.

Gods, he looked absolutely perfect in it, you mused, the leather embracing his tight waist, but showing off his broad chest. The three layered flaps that you’d made knowing it would help protect that precious artery deep in his upper arms made him appear larger and more powerful. The studded metal knobs over it were part of the overall design, but paired with other flaps and reinforced panels did the same for all his other vital organs and you told him as much as you traced your fingers over each spot.  
“Your ribcage will protect your heart enough mostly, but this double thickness panel here,” you said touching the center, elongated diamond-shaped section over his solar plexus “will help deflect any angled frontal attack…and your liver… ” Your hands traveled down to the stomacher panel, also double thickness and your heart thrilled at the hideous notion of him being stabbed here. “This is double paneled too, protects your belly, your entrails…” Hvitserk’s breath hitched as your hand drew over his stomach and he trailed his fingers on your arm. You walked around to his back, moved your hands around and pressed on one of the long back panels along his flanks. He kept his eyes on you, looking over his shoulder.

“And these guard your kidneys…” Then you traced the built up, layered strip running from his neck to his waist “this long thin section, your spine…” you circled around to his front, glanced up at him and liquified at the tender, utter thankfulness in his eyes. 

“Embla, I-“  
You put a finger to his lips, stopping his word, took a step back. With your heart thudding in your chest, you loosened your dress strings and relished the look in his eyes as your dress slid to the ground. You’d never stood naked in front of a man before and were glad he was your first. He licked, bit and sucked in on his lower lip all in the span of a moment and even quicker, crossed the space to you. You shivered as the leather and metal met your bare skin and whooped as he whirled you around, kissing you and lay you onto the wood table. 

You were in complete sensory overload as the smooth, aged wood table rubbed against your back and your thoroughly leather-clad Hvitserk pressed into your front. His heavenly, nectarous mouth pressed into yours and you were dumbstruck at its talent.

Just when you thought his mouth couldn’t display its talents to you any more, he picked you up slightly, scooted you further back on the table and descended upon your sex with it. You nearly came undone and let out such a powerful moan that he had to reach up and cover your mouth with his hand as he continued his expedition onto your most secret spots below. He worked you to a frenzy with that mouth and soon you came, powerfully beneath him, whining and sinking your teeth into the meaty spot below his thumb to keep quiet. Your last coherent thought before crashing over the edge was that you felt the edge of his lips quirk up against you with pride at his conquest and you gratefully surrendered to the victor.

 

He raised up, sliding his mouth up along your torso, wiped his mouth with a full swipe of his palm and kissed you. Then he stood and fumbled desperately to unbuckle himself, free himself from the armory, bare himself to you as well.

You sat up shakily, gathered yourself together as best you could, still weak from your climax, but helped slip him from the shirt and then his pants. You had just a moment to take in and appreciate his perfect warrior body before he swept you into his arms and kissing you, carried you to the bed.

He laid you on the furs and positioned himself between your knees. You thought of the few other men, mere boys in comparison that had tried over the years to weasel themselves into this same spot and you were so thankful you’d pushed every one of them away. Hvitserk was the one fated to first take you.

As he gently pushed your thighs further apart by wiggling his hips between them, you felt the full length of his cock slide along your entrance and gasped. You’d seen it briefly in your post climactic daze as he picked you up, but now, in direct proximity to your own sex, it seemed huge.

Just minutes ago you were begging for him, threatening to reveal your secret to the entire hall if not the village with your cries as his mouth worked on your most private parts, but now you were suddenly nearly as skittish as a kitten and you hated it. He reached out, stroked your hair and soothed you with his voice.  
“Embla, Embla. It’s all right. I can stop if you want…” his voice was breathy with need, but earnest and it steeled you to reconsider. You thought of that lovely look on his face as he’d watched how you’d crafted his war shirt to protect him so thoroughly and you knew you were just as safe in his hands. You were not going to run away from this man again.  
“No, no, it’s all right. I want to…” you sealed your desire with a kiss but gasped again as he pressed the end of himself into the start of you. 

“Oh my gods, Hvitserk,” you cried in a desperate whisper, panicking a little as his tip stretched your opening and strained against the blockade of your innocence. “You’re not going to fit!” your voice squeaked as you said it and he kissed your temple lovingly as the rest of his body slid up against yours, hot with want. He was a remarkable combination of desperate for you but calm and beautiful in his reassurance.

“I’ll fit. You’ll see, my love.”

You cursed your vivid imagination as you realized he’d done this before with some other virgin. Probably a few. His hands on your jawline again startled you out of your hideous imaginings. Lust crazed, but scared and nearly breathless with both yourself, you were amazed at how he stilled his carnal craving for you long enough to tilt his chin down to peer tenderly into your eyes.  
“Embla, it’s better if I do this part fast, okay?”  
Your heart skipped and all you could do was nod and shut your eyes tightly. He dropped his head in the crook of your neck, moved his hands from your face to your hips, and braced you. As he as he drove firmly into you in one swift stroke, you felt a small rip within your walls and saw a burst of light behind your closed eyelids. You nearly shrieked at it, but bit the only thing in front of your mouth, his shoulder, to keep quiet.

He jerked then sighed at the disparate sensations of the bite paired with the pleasure of you enveloping him. At the very moment he’d split your virginity, you’d nearly wanted to push him off you, wriggle free and run away again but then a surprising warmth and pleasure surged through you as Hvitserk moved slowly once within you to test out your depth and tolerance for his entirety.

That and his drawn out sigh was intoxicating and you ached to please him more. He was sweating with effort of holding back, you could tell, to not take you forcefully, wanting to check if you were all right.

In wordless answer, you raised your hips against his, rolled them slowly, then pulled back, sinking your ass into the mattress, savoring the sensation of his girth and length filling you. The immediate pain was gone and all that remained of it was a wonderful ache. His hips stuttered with shock of your enjoyment.

Out of pure animal instinct, his reaction was to thrust twice more but it was slow, restrained. It was like holding a wolfhound on a leash; you could feel the beastly force of his muscles pulling back in the opposite direction of his lust, burdened against his desire to not to hurt you.

“No, don’t hold back,” you begged, purring into his ear and you felt that mouth, oh gods that mouth, arc into a wildly excited smile on your skin. “You’ll be sore tomorrow,” he warned with a moan. “Good. Then I’ll remember you fucking me from dawn until dusk.”

And that was all he needed to unleash that beast. With your permission to take you, his hips slammed into yours, making you gasp and scrabble for grip on him. He reached under your back, held you tight in his arms and crushed your mouth with his. His kiss while he was fucking the last traces of virginity right out of you was the most wanting, powerful thing you’d ever known and once you got over the shock and submitted to it, you dissolved into him, never wanting to rise back out.

Hvitserk came with three hard thrusts and a shudder, your name on his phenomenal lips, those lips on your neck. It was your unraveling and you joined him, your hips rising up and convulsing hard against his.

Afterwards, you lay in in the sanctuary of his arms, watching him smile as he drifted off into a short nap. Gods, those lips. That mouth. You could come again nearly from just the sight of them. He had the most expressive, beautiful mouth you’d ever seen on a man and you thanked the Gods that mouth belonged to a man who wanted to put it on you. Your Hvitserk. You reached over, traced his lips with a fingertip and he smiled under them, then gave them a short kiss.

“I’m dead my sweet,” he murmured with a short chuckle, not opening his eyes. “You’ve conquered me.”

A little bit later when you’d both recovered, he reached over and cupped your sex gently in his hand. You smiled, sinking into it. You were bruised, you were sure of it and smiled that he’d marked you so.  
“Are you much sore?”  
“Mmmm. yes, but it’s lovely.”  
You edged up onto an elbow, appraised his still-sweaty body. “Any chance I made you sore too?” He chuckled at that and licked that beautiful bottom lip again.  
“I’m definitely feeling a bit worked over,” he said, playing tough. “You certainly do like to bite, don’t you?”

He held up the palm of his hand where there was a crescent shaped bite mark deep in the heel of his hand and you smiled at it, remembering his mouth on the crux of your femininity.

“I’ll stop biting when you stop being so damned delicious, my sweet.” 

He chuckled and tapped his shoulder then, tracing the defined bite mark from your deflowering. Small red dots were blooming underneath it, tiny blood blisters. You looked at him slightly sheepish, but he kissed you.  
“I’ll lament this one fading away for sure.”  
“I’ll just have to sink my teeth into you again then, my prince,” you said with a devilish grin, quickly dipping your head under the furs. He squirmed, giggled and yelped as you nipped the lovely bare skin of his side and then a small line along his stomach, right above where his hair started again. His body arched delightfully off the bed, muscles sprung as he endured and enjoyed your teeth.

You reveled in how his flexed body relaxed and sunk into the mattress as you switched from nips to tongue drags. You smiled when you felt him grow hard again against your breasts and you sucked in a breath and readied yourself to do something your sister had once giggled with you about. Delving a hand below, you cupped Hvitserk’s balls and listened to him groan as you took him into your mouth.

It was beautiful to discover him in this way you thought as you worked your mouth along him, syncing the strokes with your hand at the base. Under the furs, as you breathed through your nose, so close to him, everything was mysterious, musky and smelled of the unique, mixed scent of the two of you.

You knew from your more experienced sister’s midnight giggling whispers what was coming and when his hips bucked and shuddered beneath you and when you felt his balls ruck up against himself in your hand, you were ready for it. You heard his muffled cry above you and knew he’d buried his face into a pillow as he came, anticipating the loudness of it. His seed poured into your awaiting throat and you smiled at yourself as you swallowed it easily. 

That was something Dagmar hadn’t enjoyed and had told you to spit it out. But as its tangy flavor passed over your tongue, your only thought was it was another way of taking him into you and you couldn’t imagine the rejection of spitting him out.

His hips slowed and you kissed a trail up his heaving body, then snuggled against him. He struggled to catch his breath and you snickered.  
“Oooh I liked the taste of that,” you said, kissing one of his sweat slicked shoulders.He chuckled, almost hiccuping for air. “Look at this lusty little vixen I’ve turned you into.”

“Oh she was there all along I think. You just made her feel protected enough to come out.” 

Right before you fell asleep, your eyes flew open and you laughed. Hvitserk curled into you. “What is it?” he asked sleepily. 

“We completely forgot to measure you for your new leather pants.” 

He chuckled back. “Well I guess I need to schedule another appointment for tomorrow.”


	4. Bind Me to you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Embla finally measures Hvitserk for his leather pants...

After a short, but lovely nap in Hvitserk’s arms, you slid out of his bed and after some kissing, giggling and swatting his eager hands away, you left. Your parents would certainly know what was going on if you stayed any longer. 

As you approached your house, the soreness in your groin throbbed and while all the memories of its cause were lovely, you had to be frank; physically, it fucking hurt. Not only did your actual womb and inner walls ache from the first thrusts they’d ever endured, but with every step, your chafed thighs stung as you walked. You smiled though to yourself as you thought of Hvitserk’s leather and metal covered torso rubbing against them as he used that perfect mouth of his on you. 

As you entered your home, you came face to face with your parents in the kitchen. You tried desperately to seem casual, struggling to wipe that secretive smile of your face and hide your practically duck-waddling walk.

It didn’t work one bit. 

As your mother’s eyes widened and your father coughed to cover a chuckle, and then attempt to look stern, you second guessed your earlier eagerness to be taken so hard by the third Ragnarsson. You were thankful for the approaching storm clouds outside that darkened your home’s interior so they couldn’t also delight any further in your cheeks flaming with embarrassment. 

Two days later, you were in the marketplace, feeling finally somewhat healed. Hvitserk walked out of the crowd and right up to your family’s stall. You were happy to see him, but curse it all, the moment his eyes lit on yours, you felt the sting and the ache tug within you all over again. He smiled as he strode up to the long wooden board balanced on two barrels that served as a counter. You saw your mother hide a smile as she turned and busied herself at the back of the stall.   
“Hello Embla,” his voice, quiet, but strong, sung straight into your heart and you couldn’t have helped the smile that split your face if you’d wanted to.   
Your mother tried to give you your privacy, folding a few pairs of pants you always kept on hand and arranging the model scabbards, money pouches and flask straps, even though everything was already impeccably organized. But Hvitserk turned his attentions to her, leaned towards her with raised eyebrows, raised his voice.   
“And is this your mother?”  
Your mother turned, smiled, curtsied. “My Prince. It’s an honor.”   
Hvitserk nodded, but then protested. “No, no the honor is mine. Your family’s craftsmanship is a tribute to the gods and makes us an indefeatable force in war.” 

You looked over in amazement as your mother, your usually cold, no nonsense mother BLUSHED and stammered. 

“oh, no my prince. I’m only good at bartering and selling the wares. The talent of creating them lies all with Embla. My husband taught her all he knows, but the student far surpassed the teacher long ago.” 

Hvitserk’s eyes fell back on you at that and you felt heat rise from your toes to your breasts in one delicious wave. 

“Oh yes, her talents are abundant, that’s for certain,” he said with a smirk and you found yourself partially wanting to smack him and partially wanting to have him right there on the wooden display table, spectators be cursed. 

Hvitserk turned back to your mother, who was still smiling stupidly like a girl half her age. 

“Do you think I could take her for a bit again? She and I got so caught up in our fitting appointment for my phenomenal new vest the other day that we completely forgot to measure me for new pants.” 

Your mother was so dumbstruck by the combination of his boyish good looks, his brazenness and his utter grace in basically admitting to fucking the virginity right out of her daughter that she just opened her mouth like a gutted fish. You grabbed your shoulder bag with your measuring materials and slipped it over your shoulder, at the ready. 

“I’ll have her back soon,” he promised and glancing at you, winked at your narrowed eyes and pursed lips. He held out his hand and led you around the edge of the display table. Your mother finally gathered her wits, curtsied and managed a short “of course, my prince.” 

“You’d better not have me back soon,” you hissed and Hvitserk squeezed your hand as you made your way up the hill to the hall, and his lovely, beckoning bed. 

He pulled you quickly down the side hallway and the moment you slipped in the room, his hands were on you like a starved man on a crust of bread. You melted into them for a moment, sucking in what felt like all the room’s air in one gulping breath. His grip on your hips, then his fingers on the skin that was exposed and his murmurs in your ear about wanting to fill you again were nearly too much, but you took a deep breath and stepped back. 

He smiled with a pained look, bit his lip and reached for you but you shook your head.   
“You promised my mother you’d have me back soon.” You shot him a teasing , torturing look and he fell to his knees. Your loins clenched as he scooted across the floor to you on them, then upon reaching you, wrapped his arms around your legs and buried his face into your skirts. He made a pained, whining noise as he inhaled deeply and kneaded your ass with his hands. 

“Stand up, my prince. I need to be the one on my knees for this.” Hvitserk burst out into a chuckle at that and with shoulders slumped, stood up. His eyes danced at you however as you readied your string again. 

“Hands at your side, my prince, and-“ you took your foot and scooted his legs apart quickly, making him lose his balance slightly. “don’t move.” 

You dropped to your knees and drew the line of the string from his instep to his crotch quickly, snugging your fingers deep up into the crease where his balls met his body. He gasped and you flicked your eyes up at him, smiling innocently. 

“You look good down there,” he quipped in response. You pinched his upper, inner thigh making him hiss in his breath, hard. “Oh ho, ho!” he giggled out, shaking his head. You knew you’d pay deliciously for that, later. 

You released the string, knotted the measurement quickly and stood up, your stomachs brushing with each breath. You flung the string around his back and then pulled it taut around his trim waist. Your fingers brushed the skin under his tunic making him sniff lustily and you could feel his eyes burning into you as you knotted that appraisal of his lean form onto the string. Before you could draw in another breath, he grabbed the string from you, whipped it over your head and pulling it against the small of your back, entrapped you quickly against him.

“Hey!” you cried out but he assaulted your mouth with his, his tongue breaking into your mouth without polite inquiry and silencing you. 

“Did you get the measurements you need?” he panted, his lips annihilating you. 

“Yes!” you nearly shrieked, in between his kisses. 

He jerked hard and knotted the string around you, where your hips met, pulling and tying you together, then shuffled his pants down just enough. As he sunk to the floor gently but urgently with you in his strong grip, you desperately pulled your skirt up. 

As your ass met the floorboards, the tip of his cock met you and then plunged within. Hvitserk’s open mouth, that beautiful fucking mouth, pressed hard against your neck as you arched hard against the floor and pressed yourself into him as much as you could. He thrust into you with all of him, crying out your name in between labored exhalations. 

As he reached back, pulled your legs around his waist tighter, the string encircling you both snapped and so did your desires, into a cascade of pleasure taken and pleasure given.


	5. I'm Starving

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> might be my favorite chapter of all between these two... the perfect mash-up of food and sex and how much these two love BOTH

Hvitserk stretched his arms above his head, a smile splitting his face from ear to ear. Not only was his precious Embla beautiful, she surprised him in bed with something every time. This time, it had been pinning him onto his back, riding him which was nothing new, but this time she’d faced his feet and leaned forward so he could easily watch himself disappearing into her. 

Hvitserk had been with enough women that nothing was really completely new, but with Embla, everything seemed so wonderfully novel, and the fact he’d taken her virginity only weeks ago made watching her blossom into this adventurous sexual vixen all the more exciting. Most women he’d been with had been so eager to please him it was all “what would you like my prince?” but Embla had taken the horse by the bit so to speak, and led him around like a panting stallion, taming him just enough and then letting him run wild. 

He’d never been like this before, and while she certainly wasn’t taking his manhood from him, it was thrilling to watch her take charge and experiment. 

The experimenting was going to drive him to an early death though, he mused, feeling his heart pound after this last climax. He looked over at her and thought, “well at least she’ll be in the afterlife with me,” chuckling at her slick skin, flushed chest and exhausted overall demeanor. 

That rosy, heaving chest of hers called out for his fingers and he turned toward her slightly, drawing a finger along the length of her ribcage. 

“Are you satisfied, my love?” he asked and felt a sting like a slap when she replied flatly, “no.” 

He leaned up on a elbow surveying her body, confused. She certainly looked post-climactic, and her moans and cries had been awfully realistic... Hvitserk’s mouth twisted in doubt and puzzlement. How had he not done his job? Embla chuckled at the adorable struggle on his face, then reached out, stroked his cheek. 

“I came, Hvitserk. Twice actually. You sent my body to the heavens and back. I meant that I’m STARVING. We skipped dinner entirely when we slipped away from the feast earlier.” 

Relief flooded through Hvitserk like a river and he let out a long sigh that made a Embla chuckle again and pat the mattress. “Oh my love, don’t worry for one moment that you can’t meet my needs here.” Then she tapped her chest, on the left, above her heart. “Or here.” He smiled and kissed her at that, thankful. “But,” she continued, eyes full of mock gravity and her mouth barely twitching into a smile, “I will leave you like a dog if you can’t fill my belly soon with something besides your seed.” 

The prospect of Embla deserting him no matter how teasing, and that of food made Hvitserk jump out of bed, stark naked. He cracked open the door to his chamber and peeked out, listening. 

“I think they’re all drunk and passed out,” he whispered, crooking a finger at her. He found and slipped into just his leather breeches and she pulled her simple blue dress over her head. They padded out, barefoot, into the Hall. 

It was filled with unconscious Norsemen, full of drink and meat, passed out at, on and under the long tables. The thralls had all gone to bed as well, all with the Norseman persistent or enterprising enough to claim one quickly for then evening and they’d left out all of the food and ale. 

“Ah!” a parched Embla exclaimed in a whisper, finding a cup half full of ale and draining it quickly. 

They both slunk along the tables like foxes, picking at scraps and and yelping excitedly at jackpots of half eaten suppers and partially full cups of ale. 

Embla spied a bunch of fat purple grapes at the end of one table, but they were partially blocked by a sleeping Halig, a large tow-headed man with thick braids and a white, tied beard that was soaking up a spilled puddle of ale. 

Hvitserk watched lustily as she crawled nimbly, perched on her finger and toe-tips, around Halig, and towards the bunch of fruit without rattling a single tin plate. But when she got there and sunk her teeth into the first one, she melted onto the table with a sigh, laid herself flat. She knocked over a pitcher and rattled three plates. Halig snorted, stirred and then settled back into a drunken coma. 

The slick, seasoned wood of the banquet table against her back, and popping another grape in her mouth, Embla moaned low, ecstatic with how her hunger, both the ache in her womb and in her belly had been sated all in past twenty minutes. She couldn’t imagine being happier as she closed her eyes and then her lips around another fat, bursting orb.

Hvitserk felt a lust in his middle like none other he’d experienced. Eyes hot on her like a hawk on a mouse, he crawled on all fours down the length of the table, his hands and knees knocking over nearly empty horn cups of ale, sliding over empty plates... then stopped as he reached her feet. He smiled at the view before him, this woman who was actually squirming with the pleasure of eating grapes. He’d finally found the perfect woman, one who couldn’t choose between food and sex either, demanded both on a regular basis and one who found equal pleasure in them. He couldn’t wait to eat and fuck for the rest of their days. 

Eyes still closed, Embla chewed the grapes, giggled as a little juice escaped her mouth and wiped the side of her lip with a smile and a sigh. Hvitserk straddled her, still on hands and knees and curled that mouth into a smile as she opened her eyes. 

“Look what I found...” he leaned back into a kneel, pinning her hips under him, held up his hands, where he had two chicken drumsticks, each laced between the fingers of a fist. 

“Ahhh!! Meat!” Embla sat halfway up, struggled to wiggle out from underneath him and lunged for one. He pressed her hips back down under his groin and pulled his hands back. 

“My meat for a kiss, my lady.” 

Embla swiftly grabbed his crotch, making him suck in his breath then moan as she worked her fingers over him. With her other hand, she grabbed his shirt in her fist and yanked him down to her lips. 

Hvitserk groaned, spread himself flat along her length, kissing her thoroughly as she spread her legs for him in welcome. 

As he was distracted by her body and lips, she plucked a drumstick from his hand. He groaned into her kiss, then pulled away, held the remaining drumstick between his teeth and ran both his hands over her breasts and down her hips. She arched up against him, ground her hips against his as she sunk her teeth into the chicken and nipped off a bite. Hvitserk pulled up her dress over her hips, then shuffled his pants down just enough. 

“Oh gods yes...” Embla moaned, feasting upon the bite of meat, savoring its greasy, heavy sustenance. Hvitserk reached to his own mouth, tore off a bite of the other drumstick in his teeth. While chewing it, he buried his mouth in the soft skin where her neck met her shoulder, and asked her “Is that moan for me or the chicken?”. Embla chuckled, “bothhhhh.”

With the chicken in one hand and his cock in the other, he pressed himself into her, guided himself between her thighs and sheathed himself to the hilt. 

She squealed out, arched her hips to meet his and then wrapped her thighs swiftly around his. He thrust into her, one hand snaking under her to cushion her from the table and the other bracing his weight. 

Embla smiled at him, glanced over at the drumstick in his hand that was just inches from her face. As he heaved into her, she turned her head to the side and sunk her teeth into his drumstick. He was about to make a whining noise, partially at the feeling of him sliding along her wet depths, but also at her stealing his chicken. He closed his eyes in frustration and ecstasy, and then smiled as he felt her offer her chicken leg to his lips. 

It was too much for his overloaded senses, drunk off half cups of ale, full of chicken and filling her. As his whole body filled with warmth and aching, he begged the gods desperately for her to come beneath him before he did. He pressed his teeth to her offered chicken and bit off far more than his share. 

Thankfully, blessedly, her breath hitched and her thighs tightened around him. As her walls convulsed around him, Hvitserk desperately gulped the meat, thanked the gods. His balls hitched against him and he spilled into her with all he had left.


	6. Chapter 6 "Seeded"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Embla's mother discovers her secret and helps arrange a time for her to tell Hvitserk. 
> 
> Hvitserk commissions a set of reins for his horse, with the intention of spicing up his and Embla's love life, but she turns the tables on him... then he discovers the secret she was afraid to tell him.

“Embla, may we speak?” 

Your mother approached you in the kitchen as you pulled a loaf of bread from the oven. She was coming out of the back room where she did household tasks like folding laundry, mending. 

You turned to her and burnt your finger on the slab of stone that the bread had baked on. 

“Curse the fucking gods!” you shouted, dropping the loaf quickly onto the table and sucking on the singed digit. 

“Embla!” 

Your mother’s admonishment sent a flush to your cheeks and your hand went to your necklace, a metal Mjollnir, Thor’s hammer. You looked to the heavens, said a silent apology and your mother seemed appeased. She was at your side at a moment though, and you could tell something beyond your disrespectful mouth was on her mind. 

“Yes, mother?” 

She hesitated, unsure how to start and you looked at the linens in her hand, realized it was your other dress. A cold sweat slicked your skin, cooling the burn on your fingers and sending a sense of dread through you. 

“Embla, I’ve washed your clothes since you were a babe at the tit, just in swaddling clothes.” 

You both gulp nervously, in sync and you realize that while you always thought you were more of a daddy’s girl, you are more of your mother than your heart could have dreamed. 

“How late are you?” It was barely a whisper. You’ve always had a glass face, no ability to hide your feelings or worries and you instantly crumble at her question, slump to the kitchen table bench behind you. You cover your face with your hands and she instinctively flies like a bird on an downdraft to your side. Wraps you in her comfort. 

“Two moons.” 

She nods. She knew. 

“The moon is waxing, my sweet daughter. It’s a week from three.” 

You sniffle and she pulls you closer. 

“Hvitserk will be there for you, my daughter. He loves you, I can tell.” 

Your heart thrills at that, you know he loves you but will he love what you have created together? How your lives will change? Your lovely mother reads your thoughts, pushes you from her and grabs your shoulders tightly, turning you toward her. 

“Yes, Embla. He will. He will love this child like he loves you.” 

“I haven’t had other men mother, but he has had other women. How do I know I’m special? He may have even gotten other women with child… how do I know he cares more for this one?” 

Your mother’s eyes go soft.

“That, my dear, you will have to find out from him.” 

Your blood runs cold again and your mother squeezes your shoulders. 

“Know this, daughter. While I believe he loves you and will do the right thing, if he doesn’t, I will not only take his name to the gods for eternal cursing, I will stride into that hall myself and shake my fist at him and let him know I have.” 

You pull her into a long, strong hug, still yourself with a breath and stand, knowing what you have to do. 

The next morning, you and your mother stand shoulder to shoulder in your family leather working stall at the village market when Hvitserk approaches, full of naïveté and his usual swagger. Your mother bumps her hip into yours in silent solidarity and you bump back as Hvitserk, with those entrancing green eyes and that mouth sidles up to the stall, smiles at you. You curse your thighs for tightening at the sight of him, but find yourself effortlessly smiling back and your heartbeat throbbing in your chest at the sight of him, every beat pulling you to him. 

The thought of your heartbeat brings another, smaller, faster one to your mind and a flush of excitement floods your face and chest. Hvitserk, gods love him, smiles thinking it’s for him. 

“Embla.” you nod at him, bob a small curtsy. He nods at your mother and she honors him the same, eyes to the dirt and a bob of a bended knee. 

Her eyes raise first though, slipping quickly sideways to you, then to him. 

“How can we assist, my Prince?” you ask, steadying your voice. Hvitserk, curse him, drags that tongue along those lips and raises his eyebrows at you. 

“I have a commission for you. One only your talented hands can possibly do justice to.” 

Your mother snorts but covers it quickly with a cough. Hvitserk notices, but tactfully keeps his eyes on you. 

“Oh? What is it? A scabbard perhaps? A safe and steady sheath for your… weapon?” 

Hvitserk’s eyes dance at your suggestion, but he leans in, both hands on the table. 

“No. I’m needing a new bridle and set of reins for my horse.” His emerald eyes narrow at your blues. You laugh at that. 

“I’ve seen your horse, my prince. She is not one for reining. She’s as wild as the sea.” 

He chuckles at that. “Yes, her name is Unnr.”   
You chuckle, shake your head, remembering the old story about ægir, the giant god of the sea and his nine daughters, named for types of waves. Unnr was “frothing wave”. 

“Then why bother with reins? I say let her be free. Grab her mane maybe, snug your thighs about her, just so you don’t fall, but don’t try to control her beyond that.” 

At that, you glance around and notice your mother has left the stall completely. 

And within a second, Hvitserk is at your side. You suck in a breath as his hand snakes around your waist. You wonder if it’s still as lean as he expects, if his grasping fingers can feel the widening, the burgeoning span of your shared implantation. He doesn’t seem to as he pulls you to him and you melt into him with a sigh. 

“Can’t the reins be a thing of mutual agreement? That which brings you to the same level? Takes my Unnr’s stormy wave and stills it just enough to match my need, my desire… my ability to ride her?” 

“Is that all it is, my lord? Just a means of equalizing control? You’ll still honor her wild spirit and let her run when she needs to?” Hvitserk nods, just a bob of his chin barely downward , but his eyes still locked with yours. 

“Then yes, my prince. You shall have them. I’ll deliver in three days.” 

He leaves and your mother slides back up too you with a grin. 

“Chicken.” 

You smirk. “We were talking horses, mother, not chickens.” 

She chuckles. “You weren’t talking horses either, my girl.” 

________

You spend the next few days and nights cutting cured leather, binding the edges and taking heated tools to press intricate designs permanently into the fleshy animal skin of the bridle and long reins. Without any hesitation, you decided on a frothy, stormy wave design along the length of the leather, smiling to yourself. 

The next morning, you tried to eat a quick breakfast of bread and butter, a red apple, but the morning sickness was a little stronger this morning, and you hoped it was just nerves over delivering the bridle and reins to Hvitserk and telling him about the baby. You left the mostly untouched food on the plate, wrapped your wares in linen and were about to walk out the door when there was a knock. 

“Embla? It’s me.” 

You flew to the door, threw it open and Hvitserk strode inside, then turned and stood surveying your simple home, an elbow resting on the pommel of his sheathed sword. You cocked your head curiously at him. 

“I was going to deliver it to you just now, my love. You seem to enjoy surprising me on days like this.” 

Hvitserk smiled at you. “I like surprising you.” He pulls you to him and when your bellies touch, goosebumps shoot over your entire body. He’s so close to his child. You get to surprise him, soon. You’re just about to tell him, but he’s already closed his eyes and pulled your mouth to his. The kiss makes you dizzy as they always do and you nearly forget your news. His hands travel down to your ass and grasp it tightly. You squeak, then lean back, breaking the kiss, but not his grasp. His lips dive to your neck and you try to steady your swimming brain. Your sister told you, while pregnant with the child that later killed her in birth, she was ravenous for sex and you could see that happening now to you, Hvitserk’s hands and lips working their magic faster than ever. You felt your core slick and warm and your nipples harden under your dress, almost painfully. His hands went to them and you squeaked again, in blissful pain. 

Your beautiful, tender man could tell something was different and pulled back. 

“What is it my love?” he asked, stilling his hands on your breasts to feather light wisps of a touch, circling your nipples. You gasped and nearly swatted his hands away.

“Aren’t you afraid my parents might barge in at any moment?” You were testing him. They had left late yesterday afternoon, said they had urgent questions for the seer… and you realized at that moment, it was entirely orchestrated by your mother to allow you a few days alone with Hvitserk. You smiled and he did back. 

“No, my love. As the queen’s son, one of my duties is I am in charge of the docks. The harbormaster reports to me every evening with what ships went where and with whom on them. We have two days alone.” 

You smile and allow him to pull you closer again, continue his lovely assault on your collarbone. 

“And you didn’t want to have me in your fine hall again, on your luxurious bed with servants bringing us food and ale at your demand?” 

“Mmmm-mmmnhn.” His lips dragged along your neck, raising gooseflesh again, making your lungs feel two sizes too small and you felt an overwhelming urge for release. 

“I want to fuck you into the mattress you sleep in when you’re not with me. I want to lie for real where previously you only got to dream of me, I want to touch you and make you come where until today, you had to do it yourself.” 

With that, all the air in your too-tight lungs releases in a sigh and you pull him to your bedroom at the back. As you pass the table, you grab the linen package as he grabs your breakfast plate. 

“No time to eat?” he asks, curious. You shake your head, not wanting to broach the subject yet and thankfully he notices the package you grabbed, raises his eyebrows. You flick yours up in vague, teasing reply and pull him to your bed. 

He glances at it, starts to pull you to it, but you push him gently away, releasing his hand. He sinks to the mattress, runs his hands over it, grips the covers as if he can feel your presence still on them. 

“Your reins, my prince.” you reach into the linen and shake gently, the wrap dropping to the floor and the reins unravelling dramatically in front of his eyes. They pop. 

“Embla,” he breathes. When he reaches for them, you attack, swooping down, catching him of guard and wrapping the reins around his wrists. He lets out a surprised chuckle, instinctively fights and wriggles, but you pull, tightening the straps, making him suck in his breath. You lean a knee into his hip, and pull up on the straps, raising his arms over his head. You know he’s much stronger than you naturally and could easily get free, but his desire to see what you have in store for him is stronger. He lets you push his back flat against the headboard, and you wrap the reins around the bedpost, finishing with a good knot. Now he genuinely is trapped, you being as expert with knots as you are with leatherworking. 

“Gods, Embla,” he breathes lustily. 

You pull yourself to standing, your feet planted on either side of his hips and he looks up at you, desperate. Sitting up in your bed, his head is at the level of your womanhood.   
“You wanted to lie in the bed where I touch myself?” Your tortured Hvitserk nods, sucking in a hard breath. You hike up your dress just enough and start to stroke yourself, inches from his face. He groans, pulls at the reins like a frustrated stallion.   
“Open your mouth,” you command in a whisper and he does. “Show me your tongue,” you continue, and he smiles and shakes his head “Oh I am going to get you for this…” 

“No need for either of us to be punished. why don’t you just join in?” You stop circling your nub with your fingertips and instead spread yourself open slightly for him.

“Show me your tongue.” 

His hands strained at the straps but he leaned forward, looked up at you, stuck out his tongue, wide and flat, and when you leaned in close enough, stroked you with it. He groans and you know it’s because he loves kneading your hipbones with his hands while he’s usually doing this. You brace our hands on the wall, let him bring you right to the brink, then sink down into his lap, kiss him, moaning at the taste of yourself. 

“Untie me, Embla.” 

You shake your head, smile, reach down, untie the laces of his breeches and tug them down to his ankles. he kicks off his boots and you pull his pants off the rest of the way. His arousal tents up his tunic and grows larger as you kiss your way up his legs. 

“I’m going to fuck YOU into this mattress, my Prince.” You drag your tongue up through the sparse, curly blond hair that dusts his thighs and you hear the leather groan as his wrists strain against it. He moans lightly when you nip his tender skin and then louder again when you straddle him, guide him into you. 

Your arousal shocks you- just a few thrusts and you’re already digging your nails into his shoulder, biting your lip. Hvitserk struggles to keep up and you can tell how much the restraints are driving him wild. You vaguely wonder if the bedpost will snap before the reins do, but then your orgasm slams into you and you buck against him wildly, sliding along his length, reveling in how his girth stretches you. You cry out, shudder and collapse gratefully against his shoulder. 

You’re warm and wet and yo’d assume completely satisfied where you’re joined but he sinks his ass into the bed, then raises his hips up, slides once into you, his head grazing that delicious spot deep along your front wall and you gasp that it’s not too sensitive, but rather aching for another release. 

“I’m going to fucking come again, but I need your hands on me, Hvitserk… “

“Then fucking untie me,” he growls.  
You oblige and before you can stop him or realize what it will reveal, he’s tearing your dress over your head. He grabs your hips and you prepare to be flipped under him onto your back, but he stops.  His eyes land on the slightly swollen curve of your belly and he jolts as if shot by a crossbow, his hands flying off of you. You freeze, not knowing how he’ll react. He reaches out, strokes your belly with a cautious finger.  
He finally speaks but it’s barely a whisper. “Embla...”   
His eyes wide, he cups your small bump in both his soft, strong palms. He shifts his hips instinctively, slowing pumping into you and his tenderness pushes you over the edge you’d been hovering on and you come again, slowly, breathily, all around him.


End file.
